If the glass slipper fits …
Sally Cappon recalls her brief glimpse of Michael Jackson during a celebrity wedding.
By SALLY CAPPON
South Coast Beacon

The glass slipper is nearly 7 inches long and 3 inches high, inscribed Berry & Grace with the date 7-17-90.

Somehow it has survived on my hutch despite playful golden retrievers and errant footballs.

I presume Michael Jackson has a similar glass slipper.

They were favors at the Cinderella wedding of Motown founder Berry Gordy at Santa Barbara’s First United Methodist Church on July 17, 1990.

Florists spent all of that Tuesday turning the Spanish-style downtown church into a fairyland of flowers for the wedding of Gordy, 60, to a pretty young hairdresser.

Guests invited to the early evening ceremony included a Who’s Who of the music world — Diana Ross, Smokey Robinson, Lionel Richie — and Michael Jackson.

A couple months earlier, Toni Straka, wedding coordinator at the church, at Garden and Anapamu streets a block from the Santa Barbara Courthouse, asked if I would help with an upcoming wedding.

Naturally I agreed, knowing no more. Since the ceremony was obviously hush-hush, I figured it was someone big — probably from Los Angeles.

I didn’t know how big.

Eventually, there were hints the groom had something to do with rock music. Since I’m a country music fan, I wasn’t impressed. I told Toni I doubted I would know anyone there.

“You’ll know some of the guests,’’ she said mysteriously.

I was just to be a go-fur, helping people with small tasks and directions, allowing Toni to concentrate on the ceremony.

Arriving in mid-afternoon, I finally learned who was getting married.

Perhaps because I had gone through the Painted Cave Fire less than three weeks before, with my neighborhood still in blackened ruins and friends in shock, it was no problem keeping everything in perspective.

Quickly the church turned into a bastion of security, with people stationed at locked doors. Half a dozen burly Los Angeles detectives who were Michael Jackson’s bodyguards double-checked doors. Cameras were a no-no.

The office phone started ringing as the media, hearing rumors of a celebrity church wedding somewhere in Santa Barbara, searched for the site. Eventually, 20 limos in the parking lot may have been a tip-off and photographers and TV camera crews camped outside.

I was to sit at a major junction where the office wing leads to a back door of the sanctuary. Nearby were restrooms and a staircase to upstairs dressing rooms. It was a busy place. I fastened a button on the glove of the father of the bride.

To avoid the media, guests arrived through the office wing. I saw Diana Ross. Someone said another woman was Janet Jackson.

Michael Jackson was unmistakable. As he came down the office wing, he was a smallish figure within a circle of detectives, all of whom looked like linebackers for the Raiders.

As they hustled him toward the back door of the sanctuary, the circle parted. Spotlighted by a ceiling light, he gazed around curiously.

I happened to be there. The mom.

For a moment, our eyes met.

He smiled. I smiled back.

Again he was swallowed up, a painted boy-prisoner of fame. Ahead would come the tumult.

I have no idea how he got into the building without being spotted by photographers. The only celebrity whose picture appeared in the paper was a sliver of Lionel Richie through a partly opened door.

The glass slipper lasted longer than the marriage.